


The Things I'd Do For You

by jetblacklilac



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post Battle, darkish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 19:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14625690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetblacklilac/pseuds/jetblacklilac
Summary: She tastes the relief of being alive together still in these dark times. Most importantly, she kisses him like she could kiss snowflakes that reminded her of the old Winterfell; of home.





	The Things I'd Do For You

**Author's Note:**

> i can't write smut (like i feel super awkward) but since i have a blood kink (shh) i HAVE to try this fic with my fave ship. i tried to do something new and omg please tell me what you think any kudos or comments will warm my heart

They both know war on different terms. She has grew up into the world of careful words, either laced with flowering poems to merely obscure the ragged and barbed threats their tongues are made of. Silk and lace cover her skin but it isn’t the flesh people of courts mark but the young minds and secrets they hide behind sealed doors. Every vengeful act is done within the shadows, with coded words on parchment for a ravel to delivery so how can a person with bright eyes see such evil doings? The answer is darken your perspectives, speak more but don’t say a thing about importance, of what any noble would duly take note of and you’ll be more than just a pawn.

Sansa would know this.

On the other hand, Jon defines war in a literal sense of word. As any other person who wields a sword might attest to, the battle of fighting so their hearts might beat for a second longer. Steel and a swiftness of body are all he needed so he can repeat the duel when the sun climbs high in the sky. Blood that flows out of his enemies sometimes reminds him of the ale he drinks after each battle reeking of death and victory. Maybe in the past he has fought in the wrong fields or with and against people but now, _now_ he found a true cause, the most valiant one of all; to restore the House and castle he grew up in. And most importantly, to ensure the crown on Sansa’s head does not even wobble an inch away from where it should be; from where it was meant to be.

Sansa was inside the solar when the battle began. She frets with wringing hands and her heart thudding orotundly in her chest it was all she could hear. Her ears ring with the tormented screams that crawl out of warriors, of men who supposedly fear no man and only of the gods. When she was young, she used to enter this room and find Father, sitting behind a mountain of paperwork and concentration on his hard face. Now he, among most of her family are dead.

_Are you proud, Father? Quiet little Sansa has raised an army for our name. For Winterfell, I have summoned hell upon the Boltons and any other fool who tries to kill off any Stark from now on. This time, Jon and I will prevail and prosper like you and Mother before us._

“My Lady, Lord Snow is in his chambers.” A guard announces.

With that, she exits the room with her gown trailing behind her. As skilled as he was in battle, she knew how humble at heart he is. Evidence would come in a form of him staying in his shaggy old room, a space that belonged to him in what felt like eons ago when snow felt sweet and songs were sweeter to sing.

Her hand pushes lightly against the door and the man who leads all her bannermen sits at the edge of their bed, devastation of his battles can be grotesquely seen everywhere. His messy dark locks are in much messier splayed about on his forehead and nearly obscuring his darkened eyes (much like the clouds before the gods electrify it with thunders and Sansa feels tingles in her veins at _that_  look). The grey doublet he donned is half-opened, letting her see his chest, with thin lines of dried blood, dark circles of painful bruises, and some fresh wounds that still have liquid red escaped from him. His breaths are shallow, his gaze near threatening and black as she approaches him with dainty steps, her boots made no sound.

 She returns his hungry look with a face that wouldn’t give him a hint of how much her heart is racing or how heat is spreading through her. Yet, he is her husband and so his pink lips titled in the most infuriating manner because he knows and he feels the same reactions as well.

After a dozen silenced heartbeats, Sansa stands in front of him, hands neatly folded on the front of her dress, her face scrunches in worry as she sees how wrecked he is. Most like, he shooed all the medics away and is more inclined to hiding out here and waited for _her._ She reaches forward, pushing the shirt downwards and peeling it away from him.

 Her breath hitches in her chest (Jon watches intently, wanting to swallow the air in her into his own mouth, tasting her sighs.) The gore is quite clearly seen against his pale and scarred body. Vaguely, she knows wounds heal but these cuts from daggers, axes, and swords directed towards her beloved infuriate her for a moment. How dare they raise a hand against such a kind and caring man? A ragged bastard who’s heart is pure in wanting to see their (Sansa has been saying this often she has to conscientiously make sure it won’t slip up in public, in the ears and eyes of the court. Their union is a secret for now.) home restored to its former glory.

Her dainty hand, a _lady’s_ hand that shouldn’t even know the feel of a man’s blood against her pretty skin, hovers over a gash in the middle of his chest where his heart lays. _His heart is mine and it is safe. He is safe._

Jon’s hand is circled on her wrist not even to hurt but sufficient in flashing in caution. “Don’t. Your hand will be dirty.” He heeds her.

But she wasn’t listening to what he said, rather the wolf inside of her, prowling and wanting blood, merely tunes in that rumble of his voice. The gravel in his warning sent light feathers down her spine that she nearly sighs so prettily but she swallows it _for now_. Wolves have bloodlust in them; the sharper and intense instincts of the predator in them have sharpened this need for survival. And now, the Starks _are_ wolves and so they all have inherited this yearning for violence. Even the ones Honourable Ned Stark tried so hard to repress with stitching, songs, and playing of the high-harp. It’s no use now because when Sansa smiles it’s _wolfish_ ; full of intent and all teeth.

She snaps his hand away from his grasp and drags her nails against his skin, leaving pale red lines. Her fingers have harboured some of his blood, perhaps it isn’t even his but of the men he has slain. Her blood sings at that thought, of her hero slaying those who have harmed their House, leaving their corpses to build a pyre. Jon isn’t the loved notion of a hero, sunshine in his flowing hair, pretty skies in his eyes and how armour catches the light of the afternoon. No, he is all boiled leather, heavy longswords strapped on his back, and scars to prove the battles he has lived through. (Sansa has kissed each offending wound on his perfect body, scarred and all, and she couldn’t love him more even if she tried.)

The answering groan that rumbled out of his throat made Sansa snap her attention to the man sitting on the bed, panting, _wanting._ So she repeats the motion, on his broad shoulders down to his wrists, her hands now nearly dripping with the blood on him. The thick liquid runs from her hands and snakes down to the tips of her fingers, dotting the floor with red. She smirks at the thought of them being in his old bedroom, a place she has never been before everything had happened. But now, something will begin anew in these four walls. She swears this like her private and provocative wedding vow to her husband who needs not to hear the words of her thoughts. 

“Does it hurt, my dearest?” Sansa asks in a feign innocence of any dutiful lady. She cups one of his cheeks, his beard scratching her palm and so does the blood on his face, so dearly red that his skin contrasts against it greatly.

“No.” He croaked out. His large hands cup her waist and easily astride her to one of his powerfully muscled thighs. His hand goes behind the heavy curtain of her fiery hair and massages the nape of her neck, his thumb brushing on the front of her porcelain throat. His pink tongue wets his lips. “Look at you, Lady Stark, your pretty blue gown is a _disaster_ upon sight and now, now your face is a mess as well.” He taunts, mocking of her desires because secretly, he wants to know this is truly genuine. That he hold the love of the winter rose so many would die for and he’d gladly kill them if they even acted on it in the slightest implication.

Sansa fists his curls in her bloodied fingers, tired of pretending, of being so proper when all courtesies and polite words flee the moment Jon sends a heated look her way. She leans forward, capturing his mouth in a furious dance of possession.

She can taste the victory in the smirk that slants his mouth, his arms tightly wounds her to him that she giggles in thinking Jon wants to physically fuse them together. He swallows the delightful sound and presses her ridiculously closer, sweeping his tongue into the cavern of her mouth and writing his name on her lips over and over again. The aforementioned pretty dress is truly stained with handprints of red, swiping on her waist, the laces of her dress, and on the top of her shoulders.

She tastes the relief of being alive together still in these dark times. Most importantly, she kisses him like she could kiss snowflakes that reminded her of the old Winterfell; of _home._


End file.
